He kissed the top of her head. “I came to have breakfast with you.”
Dana set a glass of milk in front of Kayla. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Can I have scrambled eggs?” Kayla asked.
“Of course.” Dana whipped them up in a few minutes.
Luke walked in, fully dressed. He plopped into a chair, ate a plate of eggs and two scones in what seemed like four bites, then drained a glass of orange juice.
“I have to get ready for work.” Bree finished her scone and picked up her cappuccino to take upstairs with her. Dana must have loaded it with espresso, because Bree’s brain was clearing. She changed her uniform, pinned her still-damp hair into a quick bun, and said her goodbyes.
Then she picked up Matt at the station before heading to the crime scene. They slid out of her SUV at the base of Spencer’s driveway.
Their breath fogged in the cold morning air. They’d gotten lucky overnight—the snow had never accumulated beyond a patchy layer on the grass. But the temperature had dropped, leaving the ground frozen.
Bree’s phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen. Nick West, a local reporter, was calling. She had no time to answer his questions right now, so she ignored the call. A minute later, her phone beeped with a new voice mail, which she also ignored.
Matt pointed to the house across the street. A black Honda Accord sat in the driveway. “Looks like the neighbor’s home.”
Bree started across the road. “Let’s talk to them.” She didn’t want to miss the opportunity. The crime scene would still be there in twenty minutes. Who knew if the neighbor would?
They climbed the steps of the front stoop. Footsteps approached. A man who looked to be around forty opened the door in scrubs. He took in their uniforms with tired eyes. “What happened? I saw the crime scene tape at Spencer’s house.”
Bree introduced herself and Matt.
“I’m Dean Unger,” the man said. “Did Spencer get robbed or something?”
Bree shook her head. “Unfortunately, Mr. LaForge is dead. His body was discovered yesterday evening.”
Dean’s mouth opened, then closed. He gave his head a small shake. “Shit. He’s dead? Really?”
“Yes,” Bree said.
Dean rocked backward, as if the news had been a blow. “How’d he die? I always saw him out running. He seemed healthy.”
“He was murdered,” Bree said bluntly, watching for his reaction.
Dean’s posture snapped straight. “Whoa. How?”
Bree skirted the question. “The medical examiner hasn’t declared a cause of death yet.”
Dean didn’t move for a couple of seconds, as if processing the information. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. I deal with death every day, even shootings, but I’ve never known anyone personally who was murdered. It doesn’t seem real. You know?”
“I assure you that it’s real,” Bree clarified.
Dean shook his head.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Matt said. “May we come in?”
“Yeah. Sure. Sorry.” With a quick shake of his upper body, as if rousing himself, Dean motioned them inside. “Come back to the kitchen. I was just making breakfast before I go to sleep. It was a long night.”
Bree and Matt stepped into the house and followed Dean down a hallway into the 1990s. The pickled oak kitchen cabinets, Formica counters, and faded blue-and-pink wallpaper were original, not retro. But beyond the dated kitchen was a wall of sliding glass doors and tall windows that overlooked a rolling meadow and a large pond. Thick woods framed the view.
An open carton of eggs sat next to pieces of eggshell piled on a paper towel. Four eggs had been broken into a large mixing bowl.
“Nice view,” Matt said.
Dean moved behind the kitchen island and seasoned his eggs with salt and pepper. “Thanks. The view is why I bought the house. I wish I had time to renovate.”
“How long have you lived here?” Bree asked.
“Two years.” Dean picked up a whisk and whipped his eggs with an experienced hand. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”
“No, thank you,” Bree said. “We won’t keep you long.”
“Do you work nights?” Matt asked.
“Yes.” Dean poured the eggs into a frying pan. The mixture sizzled. “I’m a physician’s assistant at the hospital.”
“What time did you go to work yesterday?” Bree perched on the edge of a stool.
Dean moved his eggs around with a spatula. “I left here at four thirty. Same as always. Got home around seven this morning. We had a patient code . . .” Deep lines bracketed his frown as he remembered what had clearly been a disturbing incident. “Anyway, I usually work a twelve-hour shift. I was late getting home.”
Bree folded her hands on the counter. “Have you seen any unusual activity at Spencer’s house?”
Dean lowered the flame under the pan. “I saw police cars this morning, but before that, everything seemed normal.”
Matt leaned a hip on the counter. “What about strange cars on the street?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” Dean slid two slices of bread into the toaster. “We don’t get much traffic here.”
“How well did you know Spencer LaForge?” Bree asked.
Dean returned to the stove, scraped the eggs from the bottom of the pan, then adjusted the burner. “Well enough to wave at him when I’m getting my mail or bringing in the garbage can.”
“Did you know his family or friends?” Matt asked.
“No.” Dean turned off the heat, lifted the frying pan, and dumped the scrambled eggs onto a plate. “We were not buddies. We didn’t barbecue, drink beer, or watch football together. I moved here because I wanted solitude. I spend twelve hours a day with people. When I get home, I’m done peopling.”
“I get that,” Matt said.
Bree tried to remember the last time she’d been alone, not counting trips to the bathroom, and couldn’t. Now that she thought about it, the dog even followed her into the bathroom, and sometimes Kayla talked to her from the other side of the door.
She spotted an unopened package on the counter. “When was that delivered?”
Dean glanced at it on his way to the toaster. “I assume it came yesterday after I left for work. It was at the front door when I got home this morning.” He tossed his toast onto his plate.
Matt took a photo of the shipping label. “In case the delivery driver saw something.”
“Have at it.” Dean went to the fridge and took out a bottle of hot sauce and single-serve containers of guacamole. He shook hot sauce on his eggs and spread the guac on his toast.
“Thanks for your help.” Bree left a business card on the counter. “We might be in touch if we have any more questions. Until then, we’ll let you get to your breakfast.”
“Thanks.” Dean took a fork from a drawer. “I’m beat. Should I be concerned, Sheriff? Without Spencer, my nearest neighbor is . . . Actually, I don’t even know the distance.”
“At this moment, we have no reason to believe there’s any threat to the community.” Bree’s instincts told her that Spencer’s murder had been personal, but instincts weren’t evidence—and they could be wrong. “You don’t have an alarm?”